To Home
by SavvyJackie
Summary: Sherlock and John finally part with their home at 221B Baker Street.


**To Home**

He brushes his lips over the spot behind John's ear, closes his eyes, and whispers, "Today's the day, John."

"I know," the soldier says forlornly, and places his hand over the one Sherlock has wrapped around his waist.

"Are you ready?"

"No." John lets out a weak laugh. "I don't think I ever will be. Not today, not tomorrow. Not in a million years."

"I know. I don't think I'm ready either."

John frowns, turns to face Sherlock and searches his face for any sign of smugness, a smirk to indicate that he is only joking. Because Sherlock Holmes does not admit to being anything but a rough-edged, uncaring bastard, right?

John knows he is capable of sentimentally, and he guesses that, perhaps, them giving up their flat on Baker Street will affect him, but he never actually expects him to admit it. Never expects the slight downward curl at the edge of one of his lips, or the way his eyes turn glossy a moment before he makes a sharp sniff and turns his head away.

"Hey." John puts a hand on his cheek and kisses him. "It's all right."

"I know it's all right. Why would it not be all right? It's just a flat. I don't get hung up over physical _things. _I may be many bad things, but materialistic is not one of them."

"Well, it's not a matter of materialism, is it? It's not just the physical flat. It's the memories. We've spent our whole time together here. I can't believe we're giving it up. I don't care what you do- _I'm _getting emotional about it."

Sherlock huffs. "You don't get emotional."

"Exactly. So that should tell you something about how much this means to me."

"Whatever." Sherlock looks out the window with a conflicted look on his face. "The memories won't go anywhere. I've got them all stored in my Mind Palace. I suppose it'll just be hard to adjust to a new home; everything was practically organized here, and now I'll have to reorganize it over and over until it fits my liking."

"'Organized'? You would call the mess you had here 'organized'?" John motions to the area behind him with his head, where the table, chairs, bookshelves and several of Sherlock's personal possessions used to be. He knows that it is freakishly empty there now, too open and spacey and lacking in wholeness. He misses the mess and the cozy stuffiness. It doesn't feel like he and Sherlock are standing in their flat. It stopped feeling like it the moment they began to move things out. Now it feels like they are standing in the ghost of a place that once was, with the low echoes of the shouts and laughs that once splashed with full force against the walls teasing their ears.

"Well, everything was in its right place." Sherlock grins for a moment, and then turns serious. "For a limited time period, at least. Eventually, everything and everyone reaches their deadline and it's time to move somewhere else. Even if you enjoy it and haven't finished enjoying it, you have to cater to the whims of life's forceful winds." He works his jaw. "It's so…."

"Unfair?"

"Frustrating."

John interlaces his fingers with Sherlock's and pats him on the back, and Sherlock looks down at their hands, as if not sure what to make of them.

"Let's hope whoever gets the flat takes good care of it. Maybe even more than we did. Maybe they won't shoot up the wall when they're bored."

It gets a chuckle out of Sherlock, and John squeezes his arm to show that he encourages his happiness, and wants to prepare him for his next words.

"It's time to go. Cabbie's waiting for us and the real estate agent is coming soon."

Sherlock straights and clears his throat. "Right. Let's go." He pulls John along and makes a large stride towards the door, but John doesn't move.

"Wait, there's one more thing."

"What?"

"Come here." John pulls him back, and Sherlock obliges, though he is confused. "Just one last kiss before we go. Right here, where we first kissed." In the living room, by the window, where the sunlight set the tips of Sherlock's curls alight and brightened his pallor and grey eyes into something warm and amiable. Something John had only seen glimpses of before. Something he now likes to think is reserved especially for him.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Oh, come _on, _you're not actually _that _sentimental about this are you?"

"Oh, it's not like it'll take a great deal of effort." John runs his hand down Sherlock's face, but he still doesn't look eager about the idea. "Come on. Am I to understand that _you're _the one getting so sentimental that you can't even _kiss _me? I won't care if you start crying."

"I will _not _start crying," Sherlock snaps.

"Then come here and _kiss _me, you bloody-"

"I always knew you were a romantic, I just didn't know you were so _mushy _and-"

"-and it annoys me that you can't do this _one _simple thing for me when-"

"Oh, for God's _sake," _Sherlock growls impatiently and pulls John against him, crushing his lips against the other man's. He starts off heatedly, but John eases him into the slow, deep kiss he had first wanted them to share. A kiss that allows him to savor Sherlock's taste while breathing the dusty, sunlit air of the flat and letting the sounds of their rustling clothes and happy sighs seep into the walls and embed themselves there forever.

When they part and look each other in the eye, they start to laugh.

"Now was that so hard?"

"Oh, shut it." Sherlock presses his forehead against John's. "Good?"

John is still catching his breath from the kiss and pants, "Yeah. Yeah, I think so."

"All right." Sherlock tightens his grip on John's hand again and they make their way to the door.

As they take one last look at the flat, speaking their farewells with glistening eyes, the wind picks up and swishes the fall leaves in the air, making them race against their knees. The knocker of the door lifts up and drops down with a firm thump into its appropriate straight position after having sat in a lopsided one before.

"It's final then," Sherlock says. "The last personal touch is gone. Mycroft would be happy. The wind is in his favor."

"It can be in ours too, if we believe in it. Something brought us here, after all."

"Here." Sherlock tastes the word in his mouth, decides that he likes it, and swallows it. He squeezes John's hand and looks at him with an open gaze that is connected straight to the contents of his heart. "To home."


End file.
